Serenity
by Vetinari
Summary: Dilandau and Allen after the war. Serena has come home, but who is she, really? Is she the person that Allen remembers? Rated for angstiness and language.
1. Chapter 1

Dilandau was in the room again, the tight black space. There were no walls, no ceiling or floor, but it was still a place of constriction, a place of tight, pressing blankness. He couldn't move or breathe or think beyond the single narrow spiral of the memory. And he knew what would happen, what had already happened, but he couldn't stop it.

He knew the answer to the question before he asked it – he felt the answer, felt it squeeze his body the way that terrible anticipation of combat could catch him in the seconds before he moved his sword. He knew the answer as firmly and finally as he knew the ringing scales of clashing swords and the landscape of his guymelef's controls … but this was a dream, and he couldn't help himself. The words peeled away from his tongue and, halting and hesitant, bold and breathless, they landed in the cold dead air. They echoed in the empty space of his skull.

"Where's Shesta?"

And for a moment, as the words hung in the air, Shesta was there in the room with him, his body taut, his eyes creased at the corners in apprehension, his reply half-ready before Dilandau could give him an order – as though he knew Dilandau better than Dilandau knew himself. Dilandau had suspected more than once that perhaps Shesta was only playing along, maybe to help him save face, a crowsfoot of concern stamped between his eyebrows, biting his pale lip.

But no, the words were present and then they were past: they dissolved, Shesta disappeared, the room grew closer and the answer fell like a brick, a slow resounding _thud _that made the hollows of his jaw ache.

_Dead._

Cramped, dead, and cold – his joints screamed at the pressure points but his jaw moved again.

"Gatty?"

_Dead._

"Dallet?"

_Dead, dead, dead._

_All dead._

Millerna entered the room, paused, then closed the doors audibly behind her. Allen made no indication that he'd heard her. With resigned resolution Millerna advanced across the room, slowly pushing in chairs as she made her way up to the head of the table where Allen sat, ostensibly reading the sheets and sheets of minutes spread out before him. The table was busy with papers, ink, too many candles and – she observed with mild disappointment – the remains of the council's last meal. Allen hadn't let the servants in yet; that was a bad sign.

"You look terrible," she said, with a careful smile. She pushed in the velvet-backed chair to his right, and leaned against its frame. Allen gave her no more than a cursory glance before he turned back to his work.

It was late, but she was still impeccably dressed, hair unruffled, shoulders set back with the easy grace of trained royalty. The same could not be said of Allen who, with his creased clothing, tousled hair and haggard face, looked no better than he had when he'd returned late this afternoon from patrol. Had he rested since then?

She placed her fingers on the papers in front of Allen's nose, and made a tentative gesture, as if to straighten them. Her voice, when she spoke, was determinedly light and airy. "You should get some rest – you've had an impossible day. You knights can't do everything in the kingdom at once. Father can't expect you to read all those minutes tonight. Go to bed."

"She's screaming again."

It was a question, not a statement. Allen bit his lip, willing her to answer, though he avoided her eyes.

She didn't, not right away. "You could hear it from in here?"

She offered no other information, no answer to his tacit question, and Allen was forced to speak again, still staring at the heavy scrolls in front of him.

"What's the matter with her? The doctors – have they said anything?"

Millerna shrugged, and pulled the papers out from under his nose. "I don't know," she said, as lightly as she could, shuffling and tapping them back into order. She placed them back on the table, but beyond his reach. "Something about Sheba, or Shizpa – some odd word. I've never heard it before."

"Shesta."

"You know it?" she asked, her voice still light.

"Not it, _him_." Allen's head sunk onto his hand, level with the candles in the brackets. He stared into the light. Millerna wasn't at an angle to observe his face clearly in the darkened room, but she could see the tension in his hunched shoulders, the nervous twitch of his bare hands.

"Don't do that, you'll ruin your eyes. Who's Shesta, then?"

"He's one of Zaibach's Dragonslayers."

"_Was, _you mean."

Allen's hand tightened on the tablecloth, and Millerna felt the anger rise inside of her. It threatened to ruffle her carefully calm exterior. Well, fine. She was tired of tiptoeing around this issue with him, putting up with his frustration and exhaustion without offering any opinions or judgment of her own. If he refused to confide in her, if he chose to tell her nothing more than the most cursory details, then that was his affair – but she certainly couldn't be expected to put up with it, not when half the Ministers were threatening to lodge civil action against him for his decision.

Another faint, echoing wail in the awkward silence – it came from the far wing, but it was still audible through the heavy oak panels and curtains that lined the walls.

"It doesn't sound as though she's getting used to home, does it?" she asked in a tone that she knew to be too jaunty. It was a nasty move, unkind, and she almost regretted it.

Almost.

Allen's back straightened instantly; he slammed his fist on the table.

"Dammit, Millerna!"

She jumped back in shock, aware that she'd gone too far. He turned in his chair to face her for the first time in this strained interview, and she felt a twinge of guilt at the glower on his face. She set her jaw defensively, but she couldn't force the words out.

"I knew I'd have to put up with torment and mockery over this," said Allen, rising. He spoke very slowly, as though just barely keeping his anger in check. She felt a shiver of fear – she'd never seen him like this before. His handsome face and open countenance were twisted in the candlelight. "I knew there were people in this country, in this castle, who would want her dead. I knew it would be a shock for her and for us – I knew it would be hard. I was prepared for a struggle. But I didn't think _you_ would turn on me. I didn't think you'd mock me."

Millerna, torn between sympathy and a sneer, could say nothing for fear of dissolving into angry tears. She hadn't meant to betray his feelings – _"I'm on your side!"_ she wanted to scream. Allen hadn't yelled at her – Allen didn't yell. But she would almost prefer it to this seething bitterness.

Silence.

And in the silence, another wail – distorted and muted by distance.

"Well? No more irreverent wit to throw at me, my Lady?"

She could do nothing but hold back her tears and watch, mute, as Allen rose with a fitful jerk and left the room.

Allen left the complex of audience chambers and walked slowly back through the narrower hallways that led to the far wing of the palace. He took his time; his eyes itched from the candlelight, and his feet were heavy with impossible hope – hope that when he passed the door, something would have changed, something would be different, that this pall that her presence had cast over the castle would be dispelled – she would be fixed – she would be his sister again –

Allen was a man disappointed.

After three days and nights of unconscious fits, of brooding silence, of resentful twitches and stubborn, clenched jaws, the screaming had begun. He didn't deserve this, not after everything else. It shouldn't have turned out like this – it should have been smooth, and gentle, and easy.

At first it had seemed so simple.

The war was over, Asturia victorious, and Allen was yet again a hero, the King's most loyal knight and the kingdom's most famous commander. That the nation's policy of civilian rationing and forced reclamation of goods had immediately ceased had done nothing to hurt his popularity. The military, and his regiment especially, enjoyed the celebrity; applicants were clamouring to join his corps. The champion of Asturia. The King had been overjoyed when Allen had requested an audience with him to beg a royal favour. He'd been only too happy to hear Allen's request.

He had been less happy to hear that Allen's request involved Dilandau.

An angry, sick, captive Dilandau.

"No, not Dilandau," Allen had insisted in the Chamber of the Crown. He'd shaken his head, his arms clasped respectfully behind his back. "Not Dilandau. Her name is Serena."

At this point, some of the Ministers had sniggered, and Allen had felt his jaw tense defensively. It didn't matter that the King eventually gave his reluctant approval and washed his hands of the matter; Allen had known from the moment he heard the muted laughter that he was alone in his convictions, and therefore in his efforts.

He was on his own in this.

That would not have mattered, of course, if his resolution had remained unshaken.

But Serena was not making it any easier.

Allen was a man disappointed; chief among those disappointments was the understanding that however clear and sudden and bright his epiphany on the battlefield had been, it was still only _his _epiphany. Serena had buckled with realization when he'd called her by her name… but nothing more had come of it, nobody else had seen it, and Serena – if she remembered it at all – was feigning not to. She'd spent most of the journey home in a comatose state, and now she was alternately furious and listless, in shock or something worse.

He paused. He was in the farthest wing of the palace now. The sconces on the walls were unlit. This portion of the palace was rarely used for visiting dignitaries and officials, and often remained uninhabited for large portions of the year. It was why his sister had been housed here, he knew. Some dreary moonlight shone through the windows along the east side of the corridor, but the halls were dark. The only exception was the gentle golden flicker of a light beyond the turn in the hallway that told him he was nearing Serena's room.

His feet, which had been taking shorter and shorter steps, now stopped entirely. He passed a hand over his eyes. Staring at the minutes of the previous meetings had given him a gnawing headache, and he had absorbed none of the information. He'd have to review it early tomorrow morning, before patrol.

Another wail floated down the corridor – and for a moment, a brief moment, he felt he would go crazy if he couldn't see her. He had to see her, to prove to himself that he'd seen what he'd seen, that she was who he thought she was. He had dreamed for years now about their reunion, but the bright, pastel visions dissolved when they ran up against the reality of the sick, angry figure thrashing around in the bed. This dampened none of his longing to know her, to touch her again, but Allen now acknowledged with a heavy heart that their reunion would not be the immediate, grateful recognition of his daydreams; even without the screaming and the blank-eyed, resentful silences, he knew that he had no idea how to interact with her after her absence, that he was – frankly – embarrassed around her. He did not know how to talk about her pain, or how to counterbalance her instability.

But still … to have his sister back …

A scream – angry, raw, sore – burst out from Serena's room. The servants had opened most of the doors and windows to encourage ventilation in the summer months and to sweep away the winter must; the scream echoed through the halls without impediment. Allen heard the syllables as clearly as if he'd been in the room standing next to her.

Serena was calling for Shesta.

And so Allen turned, and went to bed.

Consciousness took awhile. Dilandau awoke late and awoke exhausted. His entire body was one long, slow ache. He tried to shut his eyes against the light, but the windows and the curtains were open, the chirp of birds from the garden below was insistent, and the sun was too bright to ignore without getting up and slamming something shut. He supposed the bed was comfortable – but he hadn't left it since his arrival, whenever that had been. He'd known that he'd arrived – he didn't know where or why. He hadn't walked since he'd collapsed on the battlefield … and that had been so long ago. He couldn't remember much about the intervening time. There had been a doctor, but what was wrong with him? Had the man said anything?

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled to himself, pushing his face insistently into the pillow in an attempt to block out the sunlight.

There had been servants' faces, of course … and there had been _him._

Allen.

Dilandau's stomach coiled the moment his brain touched on the name. That bastard – he'd been with him the whole time, invading his dreams and his thoughts as boldly as he pleased. Dilandau tried to make the face disappear, to think of something else, something vague and pleasant, and slip out of this half-conscious cage and back into the dark gloom of sleep … but the damn sun was too bright.

He opened his eyes finally and blinked a bit. A room. Alright. He'd seen it before, in his moments of lucidity. He sat up – that hurt. He ignored it; he fought his way out of the bed and dragged himself to his feet. The sun was too bright and it made his eyes hurt, but he stumbled towards the window anyways. The curtains were open. He had a view of a garden; he could see the sundial set in the center of the lawn. He could tell the time if he squinted. Almost noon.

Did that mean anything? Was time important here?

A noise behind him – he turned round to face the door, but he moved too quickly. His head spun; he gripped the bedpost and remained determinedly upright. A servant: she'd entered without knocking, sheets in hand, her face caught in half-guilty surprise.

"Oh!" She took a step back, hand on the knob of the open door, ready to make her retreat. "You shouldn't be up yet, begging your pardon. You should be in bed. I'll call the doctor …"

She made to shut the door, to leave the room.

"No!" Dilandau snapped.

She halted.

Dilandau felt his knees begin to buckle; he locked them tightly and leaned his weight against the bedpost. "No doctor. Stay here. A bath – I need a bath." His voice was hoarser than he'd expected; it threatened to crack in his throat. His entire neck was sore from the inside-out.

She didn't leave, but she stubbornly kept her hand on the knob, and she was frowning. Dilandau was nonplussed – he was used to being obeyed. Were all Asturian servants like this?

"You should be in bed," she repeated with stubborn petulance. "I was told you weren't to be moved. I'm supposed to tell the doctor if you wake."

Dilandau wanted to scream.

"What's your name?" he asked instead, easing himself down onto the edge of the bed; his legs were too weak to hold him. He grimaced at his own panting exhaustion, but even weak like this he was damn well stronger than any servant. He bullied her with his eyes, forced her to meet his stare.

"My name?"

"Are you deaf, then?"

"Mia, if you please."

"Alright, then. Mia. You have a choice. It's either my bath, or your organs on a platter – you can choose."

Millerna sighed and leaned against the slender wooden pillar of the gazebo, digesting the maid's words. The east garden was bathed in noontime sunlight. There was no wind; the tall poplars in their long, even rows were motionless. As though they existed in a vacuum, as though no time was passing. A perfect stillness. She wondered if she could just pretend that she hadn't heard the maid, if she could pass the problem along to Allen – it was his fault, after all.

She felt a sudden stab of anger – this _was_ Allen's fault, hero or not, and he'd presumed upon their complacency for far too long. He'd taken advantage of their generosity. Why should _they_ have to deal with this? They didn't deserve it; it wasn't their responsibility.

"Well, my lady?" asked the maid, looking anxious. "What should I do?"

No, Millerna sighed to herself. She knew what she had to do, she knew what was right, and she wasn't going to abandon Allen to his mistakes, even if they were his own. She grasped her maid's nervous hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

"It's alright – calm down and don't worry. We'll sort this out. You tell the footman to alert the doctor – inform him that Serena's awake, then you may be excused to see to Mia. Is Allen returned yet?"

"Yes, they arrived just before noon. He's in his chambers, I think. Shall I tell him?"

"No need – I'll tell him myself."

The girl bobbed and disappeared through a gap in the hedge.

Millerna reluctantly abandoned the shade of the gazebo and forced herself to return to the fevered, frantic activity of the palace: knights coming and going, patrols, requirements, lists, ministers with proposals and secretaries with reports. Allen's door, when she arrived, was closed against the tumult. She knocked gently, but there was no answer. She opened it a sliver and slipped into the darkened room.

Allen was asleep. His body was stretched across the bed, fully clothed, hair splayed out around his head. He looked rumpled and unkempt, but his face seemed serene in the peaceful relaxation of a deep, honest sleep. Millerna paused for a moment and smiled – it seemed a shame to wake him, really.

His eyes snapped open, and he was at once awake.

"Millerna! What are you doing in here?"

He jerked to a sitting position and Millerna started, flushing angrily – she hadn't wanted him to find her like this, a thief stealing glances. She tried to fight away the knot of embarrassment in her stomach.

Allen misinterpreted her nervousness. He took her loose hand in his and squeezed it anxiously. "What is it? Is it Serena? Is it my sister?"

Millerna took a breath. "Serena is awake and lucid."

Allen dropped her hand. "Is she alright?"

"Awake and lucid, and threatening the servants. Allen, I don't think he – "

"_She!_"

And he looked so furious all of a sudden that Millerna dared not contradict him – but oh, she was angry. "Whichever you please, then – only hurry up and get down there. This is _your_ mess." She turned on her heel and left him groggy and disheveled in the afternoon sunlight.


	2. Chapter 2

Dilandau soaked his ribs, which he supposed felt nice, then wrapped a towel around his body and without bothering to dry himself off – it was too hot for that nonsense – went back into his bedroom for his clothes. They were ripped and bloody and sweaty, but they were still his clothes, dammit, and he had no others.

Except that they weren't there.

Instead, there was a dress draped across the bed.

Inexplicable.

He curbed his rising anger. He searched the room. He ripped out the contents of the cupboards and the closets. He searched again, then rang the bell. The maid was prompt, though she trembled slightly. Was it the same one? He didn't think so, but it didn't matter.

"Where are my clothes?"

"I don't know," she replied reluctantly.

"You don't _know_? They just disappeared, then? Is that what happened?"

She shook her head. "I don't know, my Lady."

Despite the pain in his throat, Dilandau was still capable of quite an impressive shout, and the maid backed up against the wall in sudden terror as he advanced on her.

"MY LADY?" he thundered. "Was that a joke? Are you making fun of me? I could kill you! Is this one of Schezar's jokes? I haven't got – " At the mention of Allen's name, the swift sting of recollection shot through his body –

_Allen had called him by her name … and his body had buckled with realization …_

– and he felt his shoulders sag as reality seeped back into the world. "Right. Yes. Well, if you ever call me that again, I'll gut you," he growled. His anger hadn't drained away, exactly, but it did fade under the weight of these new, unpleasant memories. Dilandau pushed them aside and tried to regain control. He suspected – correctly – that Schezar had given the maids specific instructions on how to address him. He also suspected that his threats would have more impact than Schezar's mild, tenderhearted orders.

He eyed the maid. "Let's try this again. Where are my clothes?"

"My Lady – " she began, but one sharp glance was enough to change her mind. "My Lord, I'm sorry, but Sir Allen had them burnt. He said he would give you new ones."

"Fine. Get out. No! Wait!" He hesitated for a moment, and then took a deep breath and made his decision. "Tell him I want to see him."

She looked for a moment as though she wanted to protest, but the moment Dilandau's pale, angry eyes met hers, she nodded, gave a cursory curtsey, and fled.

Dilandau ran his hands through his hair; it was already drying in the stuffy heat of the room. His anger had tired him, but the weight of his pulsing memory was worse. He hadn't talked to Schezar since – well, since before he'd been brought to Asturia. He quickly clamped down on that train of thought – busy, he needed busy hands. He ripped off the towel and threw on a dressing gown, taking extra care to wrap it tightly across his chest. His new-found embarrassment about his body didn't sit well, but he ignored that, too. He thumped down on the bed. No, that hurt his hips. He stood. That hurt his legs, but he felt better standing – more powerful, in charge. He'd meet Schezar on equal footing.

Schezar. Schezar. Godsdammit. Out of all the people in all the worlds, why Schezar? This had to be a joke, a great grand prank, the final act of Zaibach's emperor, to torment him like this.

He hadn't seen the man since he'd collapsed on the battlefield. He knew he was in the king's castle at Schezar's behest. He'd seen the man's face float through the stormy edge of unconsciousness as his brain fought against the muddy haze of doctor's drugs, but they hadn't talked, hadn't interacted, had not yet come face-to-face.

Shame and anger surged in his body; what could he say to the man?

Dilandau's legs shook. He dropped both arms onto the casement and looked out the window – Asturia. Oceans and sunlight. Out beyond the gardens and the sloping palace grounds, everything was white and clean and shimmering; beyond the seaport, the ocean glittered in the heatbath, white and frothy with merchants' sails. He felt ready to vomit; he was sweating, despite the cool droplets of water on his skin from the bath.

"Fuck!" he screamed; he grabbed the nearest thing his hands could find – something heavy and porcelain from the night table – and dashed it against the wall.

"May I remind you that we are guests here in the palace?"

The voice was quiet, yet it thrummed with bass resonance; it sent finger-licks of anger and anxiety up his spine.

That voice – he knew that voice. Oh, gods, how he hated that voice.

He turned.

Allen stood in the doorway, looking every inch the hero – wide-shouldered, slender, and taller than Dilandau half a span at least. He wasn't in uniform, but his clothes bore the insignia of Asturia's military. The man looked a little nervous, perhaps – he didn't look well-rested, that was for sure – but he was still smiling. Gentle. Gentle. Did he think Dilandau needed soothing, petting? There he was, all handsome, cautious optimism.

Dilandau hated him with every fibre of his body.

"No," said Dilandau, panting slightly, not at all embarrassed to have been discovered destroying the king's apartments. "_You're _a guest. I'm a prisoner. Where are my clothes? My armour? My weapons?"

"I ordered the maids to burn the clothes," said Allen, sidestepping the issue of the armour. Dilandau made a note of it, but he wasn't about to be sidetracked. "You don't need them here. We have clothes for you."

Nonplussed, Dilandau followed Allen's eyes to the bed, where the maid had placed the dress. It was small, white, simple and delicate, nestled in a protective bed of tissue paper.

"You mean _that_?"

Dilandau's tone, like his face, was blank.

"Well?" prompted Allen, smiling gently. It seemed to Dilandau that he was determinedly ignoring the mounting awkwardness of the situation. "Put it on."

Dilandau opened his mouth, then closed it again. He ran one of his own hands over his body compulsively – hard, firm, like it had always been.

Well, obviously not _always_, but … his mind ran out of solid memory to work with and that train of thought withered away. Allen frowned, looking slightly embarrassed now, and waited for Dilandau to say something.

Dilandau took a ragged breath.

"Schezar … is this a joke?"

The anxiety that Allen had managed to keep at bay for weeks now welled up in his chest. It wasn't supposed to go like this. It wasn't! He'd refused to even consider this possibility. The nightmares, the screaming, the panicked demands for the Dragonslayers … he thought they'd been symptoms of stress, of fever, of something else, of anything but this. He thought she'd been struggling to regain her real memories, her true identity. Surely now that Serena was awake, now that she'd been severed from her unconscious demons, she would come back to him.

But Serena's violence, her sneering peevishness, her incredulous tone, her barely-suppressed anger …

Suddenly, all Allen could feel was panic. He stared at the seething, impatient figure in front of him, uncertain of what he was actually seeing.

_Who are you?_

What if Serena had fallen back into herself? What if she was too inured, too weak to make it back to him? What if she still clung to that – that – He couldn't say "Dilandau," not even to himself, not now, not when they were so close it stung. But what if she were still grasping onto that _other_ persona? That … thing, the other person she used to be.

And yet the memory was fresh in his mind: _he had called her name, and she had seen him for who he was, and she had buckled at her knees on the battlefield, she had fallen_ …

"This – all this is a joke, isn't it?"

Dilandau felt clumsy and frustrated with the inanity of the conversation. Clearly someone was having a laugh.

"Do you remember nothing from the battlefield?" Allen asked. His face had turned paler, or maybe it was a trick of the light. His voice was gentle and cautious, though, purposefully soothing, and he held out the dress as she spoke. An invitation.

"Do not mock me!" snapped Dilandau; he would have swatted the dress away, but he couldn't bring himself to touch Allen.

Allen set his jaw, but still he held out the dress. "I'm not mocking you. I would never mock you." His voice was not tender now, but determined and firm.

"Schezar, this is _ridiculous_, and I'm not wearing that."

Allen shrugged, as though he couldn't see why. "It's the finest lace in the kingdom," he said mildly.

"I'm not a _girl_!" Dilandau thundered. The sudden rush of anger weakened his hold on the bedstead, but he remained standing.

Allen's eyes narrowed. "You are my sister."

Dilandau couldn't laugh at this absurdity – he was choked with rage. "This is idiocy! Who are you trying to convince, Schezar? Yourself? Open your godsdamned eyes! I'm not a girl! Are you _blind_?" He grasped at his dressing gown. His shaking fingers grappled with the knot at his waist, and he struggled to rip his limbs from the sleeves; he tore the garment from his upper body. "See? Look! Look at me!"

"Serena," Allen began gently, unwilling to pull his eyes away from Dilandau's face.

"_Look at me!"_

Allen paused, and then he looked.

Neither of them could pretend that it was a woman's body. It was small and it was slender, but there was nothing feminine about the square shoulders, the hard chest, or the way the angular collarbones protruded from the skin.

Allen winced as Dilandau slumped back onto the bed, worn out by his sudden exertions.

"I'm not a girl," he muttered, "and I'm not wearing that."

Allen felt weary, down to the very tip of his soul. He'd been completely unprepared for this battle, and now he was distressed and at a loss as how to proceed. He was silent for a moment as he watched Serena struggle for breath. She glared at him all the while. With a small twang of regret, he cast the dress aside. Serena's body, all harsh lines and jagged edges, seemed to be the ultimate refutation of his hopes. Ridiculous hopes. Daydreams. He shouldn't have been surprised. He knew that his wish that Serena would recognize him immediately, collapse into his arms and embrace him and make everything okay again … he knew that that had been foolish. This would take time, and caution.

"We're not going to have this argument now – you're not well, and you shouldn't be out of bed. We'll talk about it later. In the meantime – "

"Don't tell me what _we_ are going to do and not do," Serena snapped. "You don't have any right."

Allen realized he would have to begin to insulate himself from these barbs. He sat himself down in the chair opposite Serena's bed, so that their eyes were nearer an equal height. "I'm your brother," he said, carefully and slowly, cautious about going any further just yet. "Siblings" might be easier than "sister," after all. The dress had obviously been one step too far, for the moment.

"Maybe." Serena glared – she did not have a comeback for that. Whatever she remembered or forgot, he knew she couldn't refute him 100% of the time.

"Alright. Wait here. I'll be back in a moment."

"Yes. Fine."

"I'm serious – stay here."

"Whatever."

"Promise me."

"Yes!"

Allen nodded grimly, and left the room.

He'd left the door unlocked. On purpose? Of course. _Testing _him. Dilandau heaved an irritated sigh, and flopped back on the bed. He pushed the events of the last few minutes from his mind and sat with a comforting blankness in his brain.

He did not have to think, he reminded himself. He was simply waiting. Waiting. For … Schezar. Ugh, no – that was unacceptable. He propped himself up on his protesting legs and limped over to the full-length mirror. He looked at his reflection. He liked his body quite well – it was a well-oiled, well-maintained, dependable machine. His face was attractive, except for that damned scar. And aside from the scar, it looked the same as ever it had. True, he knew, it looked a little feminine, if he put his chin at the right angle, but that was nothing new to him.

But now – there was something unhappy, something … embarrassing, about his body – and not because his body was any different than it had been last week. People were speculating about it, making decisions about it, looking at it differently. These thoughts infuriated him, and he could do nothing about them.

And it was all nonsense! He gritted his teeth. He was handsome, he was strong, he was young – what more was there? What could any of them object to?

He didn't have long to wait – Allen returned almost immediately, with an armful of clothes. He dumped them unceremoniously on the bed.

"Yours?" asked Dilandau pointedly.

"Yes."

"Fine. They'll do."

He spoke with curt finality, but Allen didn't leave. Dilandau gritted his teeth.

"You can go now."

"No. I would like to talk to you, if you are feeling able."

Dilandau opened his mouth to argue, but Allen sat down in the chair and gave him a long, steady look. Dilandau snapped his jaw shut.

He marched into the bathroom and pulled on the clothes. It took him a while, and it hurt, but he supposed the ignominy of striding around the palace in Allen's hand-me-downs was slightly less terrible than striding around the palace in one of the Princesses' old gowns.

"This is not the way I wanted to re-introduce you to the palace, or to Asturia," said Allen, when Dilandau came back into the bedchamber, and crawled, aching, onto the bed, "but since you're feeling well enough to destroy the king's property, perhaps you're well enough to discuss some business we have."

"Who is 'we'?" panted Dilandau.

"You and I."

"Hmm. And what's 'our' business?"

"You are allowed to be here – in this room, in this castle – because the king granted me favour."

"Because you're a _hero_."

Allen sighed inwardly, but he ignored Serena's sneer. "Because he wished to show his appreciation for my efforts in the war against Zaibach. His doctors nursed you back to health, and his servants feed and clothe you now. You are indebted to the king."

"_And_ to you, is that it?

Allen gave her a look. "Perhaps. But the king doesn't trust you."

"He shouldn't – I'm Zaibach. I'm an enemy and I'm in his house. But … he could let me go. Just – let me go. Easy. He'll never have to worry about me again. Problem solved."

Allen sighed. "All right, enough – this has been too much. You're tired and frustrated. His Majesty insists that I debrief you on the shielding technology of Zaibach's guymelefs, but I told him that could wait until you were better. I'll leave you now."

Serena frowned incredulously. It was an ugly look on her; it twisted her thin, pale face into something grotesque. "And _why_ would I want to do that?"

Allen was taken aback for a moment. He said, very honestly and slowly, "I never thought that you wouldn't want to help us. I never thought you wouldn't tell us what you knew."

"Why would I tell you? Why would I betray my country?"

Allen barked a laugh. "You astonish me – if I honestly thought you cared anything for Zaibach, I'd die of shock. Your efforts were for yourself and your own gain, not your country. And in any case, you don't belong to Zaibach – you're Asturian now."

Serena's entire body snapped upright, like a soldier standing to attention. Her very limbs seemed to crackle with electric violence, and for a moment Allen felt a chill go up his spine. Had he pushed it too far, too soon?

"I am NOT Serena!" she screamed.

And that was too much for Allen. He stared at the furious raging thing on the bed in front of him, face clammy and distorted with rage, and his heart pulled away from her.

"I don't care what delusions you're labouring under – Zaibach is finished. Your Dragonslayers are dead. Lord Folken is dead. Your soldiers, your emperor, your friends, if you had any – they're all dead."

_Dead, dead, dead._

Dilandau felt drained; he couldn't hold his head up. He was frozen, he couldn't respond. His eyes were squeezed tight, but the blackness didn't help ease the emptiness. He slumped onto the bed and pressed at the ache of frustration in his stomach – he could do no more than that.

Allen sat down beside him. The man seemed suddenly, strangely concerned. His weight on the bed pulled Dilandau closer. "Serena …" He slipped his hand through Dilandau's arm. "Zaibach has fallen – there's no going back – and the best proof of that is that you're here, now, with me."

Dilandau's eyes snapped open and he recoiled. He pulled his body out of Allen's reach and stood abruptly. It was _his _body – it wasn't Allen's, to touch and fondle when he felt like reassuring something.

Allen sighed, his tone aggrieved. "Serena – "

Dilandau did not meet his eyes, but instead stared through the window. Shimmering sky, that beautiful city stretching below him. Bile rose in his throat. "Schezar, if you ever touch me again, I promise you I will slit your throat."

The silence was loud; Dilandau dared to move his eyes from the window. Allen's face was firm, but the man couldn't quite disguise his look of shock, and that made Dilandau angrier. What had the man expected from him?

And he suddenly knew that this bubbling pain in his chest, this desperate, bruised anger was Allen's fault. It was all Allen's fault.

Dilandau rounded on him. "Don't parade your hurt feelings in front of me, Schezar! What did you think I'd say? Yes, yes, I want to stay here with you, big brother? I'm ever so sorry I led armies against you? Fuck you. I'm a warrior – I'm the elite! You think you're a knight, Schezar? Well, so am I! I'm a lord of battle! I led men to their deaths and I destroyed nations – and I'll never apologize for that, and certainly never to you."

Allen had remained carefully stoic throughout the tirade, and his face didn't change when Dilandau fell silent, out of breath and dizzy. He merely sighed. Dilandau was seized by a sudden fear that he wouldn't say anything at all, that he would just sit there, stoic and serene, like a pillar of stone in a sandstorm. He was suddenly afraid of battering himself against Allen's determination.

But then the man stood, and silently walked across the room. He put his hand on the door. Allen had large hands, quite unlike Dilandau's own. He looked back. "Serena. Do you remember … anything?"

Dilandau grinned and clacked his teeth. "Blood, Schezar – lots of it. Rains of blood. It was glorious."

Allen left.


	3. Chapter 3

Once he had regained consciousness, Dilandau's physical recovery was swift, and he quickly returned to normal. To Allen's despair, however, "normalcy" for Dilandau was to maintain a steady level of ambient hatred for his companions and his surroundings. Dilandau hated Asturia, hated the castle, hated the way they looked at him as he walked down the corridor. Nobody in Zaibach would have dared to meet his eyes as they passed him; they would have scurried from his presence in fear. But here the halls were thick with servants and ministers and messengers running back and forth. The castle had become an administrative hub immediately following Zaibach's collapse, and there were daily conferences with foreign diplomats and heads of state, and Dilandau was right in the thick of it. People who didn't recognize him brushed past him with complete indifference. Nobody but the servants and occasionally the doctor paid him any attention, and they openly gawped. They were attentive when Allen ordered them to be, but the whispered word got around that he'd threatened Amery and that the poor girl had gone into hysterics … but then they gaped the more, _stared _at him. His threats were no match for their curiosity.

And he hated it.

Here he was, in the middle of the enemy fortress and nobody seemed anxious or worried or even _aware_ that the head of Zaibach's elite Dragonslayers was an official guest of the King. He suspected Allen had quieted things up, smoothed some things over, and he wasn't sure if he was grateful or annoyed – at least if people had been angry about his presence, he'd have been on solid footing. He was used to anger – he could cope with anger.

Despite his quick recovery, escape was not so much impossible as untenable – where would he go? Zaibach had been destroyed, its crops and its fields obliterated by invading armies and streams of refugees. Furthermore, Allen had been right, as much as he resented admitting it –he had no allegiance to Zaibach. He did not care that his emperor had been murdered, cared less that the ministers were dead. A small, uncertain part of him thought that perhaps he should hate them for what they'd done to him – whatever it was that they'd done to him … but that pain was an old scar, a scar he wore without thinking.

Instead, he wrested the refugee lists from the officers at the recon towers, and spent every morning poring over the previous day's entries. He told himself that he knew they were dead, that this was merely an exercise against boredom, but every morning his stomach tensed with anticipation, only for a moment, before he had the list in his hands and discovered anew that he was fooling himself.

Sometimes, when the castle was buzzing with official visits, he sought out the familiar noises and smells of the guymelef hangar. The chief engineer recognized him. On his fourth visit the man attempted to draw him into some technical conversation; Dilandau bluntly ignored these attempts, and eventually the man began to ignore him, too.

He spent very little time thinking of himself beyond a certain moment in time, and when the nightmares woke him, he damped them down the way he always had, and continued to live.

He saw Schezar infrequently during the day. The man was deeply preoccupied, and while Dilandau was only one of several dozen difficulties that he had to contend with, it made Dilandau grin to think that he could take at least partial responsibility for Schezar's current appearance. Allen was a handsome man by all accounts, but he was looking wan and haggard now, with deep shadows under his eyes. He came to Dilandau's chambers during the evening, but what he wished to achieve by their nightly shouting matches, Dilandau was hard-pressed to explain.

As for Allen, his days fell into a miserable pattern. He lived in chronic oscillation between hope and despair. He was either arguing with Serena or avoiding her, coaxing her or bellowing at her. He could not allow himself to give up, yet she refused his guidance and rejected his arguments. He could not convince her of anything, and she lashed out constantly. There was no rhyme or reason to her aggression, and it derailed any hope or proposition he put to her. Only the night before, he'd become so frustrated that he'd abandoned his carefully-constructed arguments and stood, defeated, in the middle of her room.

"Why are you rejecting this?" he'd sighed. "I know who you are. Are you afraid of recrimination? We're kind to you here! Nobody blames you! Whatever you did as Dilandau … " – he'd progressed so far as to be able to say the name while speaking to her – "it wasn't your fault."

"Not my fault?" Serena had echoed. "Not my _fault_? You listen to me, Schezar – you can play this benevolent older brother game if that's what lets you sleep at night, but I am Dilandau. I led Dragonslayers into battle. I killed men in armed combat. I ended lives, and I was fucking _good_ at it. I did things you could never do in a million years. Don't you dare get off telling me it wasn't my _fault_!What do you want from me, Schezar?"

"I want my sister back."

"Fine by me. Search for her – go to Zaibach, what's left of it, and look for her there. Ask the people who kidnapped her, if any of them are still alive. Ask them what they did with her. But don't look for her in me."

"Serena …"

"DO NOT CALL ME SERENA!" Her voice had broken on the final syllable, which had only incensed her further, and Allen retreated once again.

If things weren't bad enough, he had no allies in this, despite his sustained popularity with the court and the ministers. Nobody _quite _understood his compunction, and Serena only served to weaken his case. Serena was a being of little grace and no tact; she was coarse, violent, selfish, unpredictable. She scared them. There was no chance of winning people over to his side. It was over a week before Millerna sought his company again, and when she did, she came only to barrage him with a litany of complaints about his sister.

"And what do you want me to do about it, Millerna?" he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I don't know, but can't you at least control him? That boy – "

"_Girl_."

"That _thing _is crazy!" Millerna screamed in frustration. "We all knew Dilandau was a psychopath and a violent killer, Allen – and he hasn't changed! He's aggressive, unpredictable, probably insane – just look what he did to my servants! He's our enemy, and – "

"Dammit, I KNOW!"

Millerna was taken aback, and Allen sighed, immediately regretful that he'd snapped. He needed more sleep. What he didn't need was Millerna's assessment of the situation, because as much as he resented hearing the words aloud, he agreed with her. "Someone did something terrible to her to make her the way she is today. It's not her fault," he sighed, but the words sounded hollow.

"_Not my fault?" Serena echoed. "Not my _fault_? I led Dragonslayers into battle. I killed men in armed combat. I ended lives, and I was _good_ at it …"_

He'd dreamed for a decade of being reunited with his sister, and though he couldn't have imagined how it had played out, these difficulties had dampened none of his longing; he wanted to hold her, to touch her again …

But Allen knew well enough that the visions he'd had of reunion were impossible dreams. Even without the screaming and the shouting and the long, resentful silences, he had discovered that he had no idea how to interact with her after her absence. He hadn't expected it to be easy, but he'd expected himself to rise to the challenge with the sympathy and strength to see her through. He did not know how to talk about her pain, or how to deal with her instability.

He was unable to help her – and now where was he? He'd spent long nights watching over Serena while she slept, watching her facial muscles twitch. He watched her eyes snap open as the screams began, and watched her fall back into unconsciousness as the dreams passed. When she was asleep, it was impossible catch any resemblance to the man he'd fought against, to the boy he'd tried his very hardest to kill. Her face was gentle in sleep, but when the dreams seized her … when her face tightened, her brow knit, her muscles seized … when she looked harder … Well. He preferred not to look at her then; she looked too similar to the Dilandau of his memories.

"Was there anything else, my Lady?" he asked with a sigh.

Millerna's face softened, as if in sympathy, but she shook it off and plodded on. "There's plenty more. Father received a report this afternoon. He wanted to tell you about it right away and have you deal with it, but we sorted it out quickly enough. One of the hangar attendants noticed that something was –"

"The guymelef hangar?"

"Yes."

_It was a battered specimen of an older make. It didn't have the clean, Spartan lines of Allen's model – but even old and rickety and in need of repair, it was a formidable machine._

_Dilandau didn't bother to check over his shoulder, to see if he was being watched. He did not care. Seized by a relentless certainty, he opened the hatches and climbed inside the cockpit – and all of a sudden, the world made sense, the world was beautiful._

_The guymelef's controls, worn smooth by sweat and friction from previous missions, looked completely different from those of any other machine he'd piloted. The mechanisms of the Asturian machine seemed to operate on different principles than Zaibach technology. He twisted round in the seat and crawled back into the space behind the cockpit, where he had access to the main generator if he pried off the protective plating. Dilandau could see that the main force for motion was stored in the tension rigging at the machine's main center of gravity, which fed the limbs through a cross-backed recumbent series – quite different from Zaibach technology, but easy enough to compensate for. He sat back in the seat. His finger pushed the main system trigger, and the machine's schema snapped into place in his mind. Easy. He'd never been too fond of mechanics when he'd had a sword to swing, but the ring in his ears dimmed beneath the shuddering gears and gyros of the mech._

_He'd found himself a refuge._

_And it could fly._

"She took out a guymelef?"

"Yes."

"I am going to _kill_ her!" Allen bellowed, slamming his fists onto the table.

"He didn't hurt anything. It was a decommissioned model, no active weapons. Our chief engineer didn't even notice that it was gone, what with all the patrol chaos and repairs we had today. But we thought it best to tell you."

"How did she even get into the guymelef hangar?"

"You let him wander around everywhere else on the castle grounds – it was only a matter of time before he found our weapons."

"But why would she _want_ to go there?"

Millerna could only shrug. "If you can't say, then I can't say. I suspect you're overworked, Allen – don't think about it tonight. You can deal with it in the morning." Allen made no response, no sign that he'd heard her, and Millerna forged on: "Besides, I think you mean, 'Why would _he_ want to go there'_._"

"My _sister _isn't a man."

"I didn't say it to insult him, or you," she responded, setting aside the medical lists she'd brought him. He noticed that her fingers moved with as much care as her words did, soft and sure. "But surely you can see the problem of convincing people that she's a _she _if you're dressing her in your own breeches."

"What can I do? She refuses to wear a dress," Allen snapped defensively.

"Then shouldn't that be enough for you?" Millerna countered. "Besides … him, her, what does it matter what we call her if she refuses to listen to any of us?"

"She doesn't need to – "

"Including you, Allen."

Allen stood abruptly.

"Maybe he'd listen if you called him by his proper name."

Allen turned on her in a fury. "Listen to me, Millerna. I know in my heart that she – that he, Dilandau – whatever else he may be, whatever he may have done – is my sister."

"Yes, but does _Dilandau_ remember?" asked Millerna, unmoved. "Maybe he doesn't – maybe it's just you. It's all very well to say he's Serena but if he doesn't remember … if he doesn't want to remember …what can you do?"

Even before the episode with the guymelef, Millerna had been aware that Dilandau spent as much time as possible out of the castle, away from Allen. Dilandau was now confined to his quarters, however, and she had every confidence of finding him there. When she knocked on the door and received nothing but silence, she wasn't deterred. She pushed one hand through her hair and smoothed down her dress, and let herself in.

Dilandau looked up with surprise from where he had been stretched out on the bed; the room was light, but the curtains were closed. He glared at her with dark, bruised eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he snapped, annoyed.

Her voice was calm. She was not going to let _him_ intimidate _her_. She knew who she was, at any rate, and this was her home. "Good afternoon. I am Princess Millerna."

"I know who you are. Go away."

Millerna closed the door behind her, then settled herself neatly in the chair opposite him. She smoothed her skirts again and crossed her legs primly.

Dilandau sighed. "Is this Allen's lapdog, come to persuade me to fall weeping into the bosom of my Asturian family?"

"Let's stop this nonsense and get straight to business," she said blandly. She was determined to get somewhere in this interview. "I know who Allen thinks you are, Dilandau – and I don't believe him."

He looked surprised, at first – but then his face broke into a pointed grin, and she suspected that in one careful move she'd become his best ally. But she didn't like the way those weird, pale eyes bored into her – he was reacting to her harshness, and she didn't know how long she could keep it up.

"Go on, then."

"I want you to tell me what you are, really. I know you're not Serena; I think you're Dilandau, and I know you're dangerous."

"Why do you care what I am?"

"After all my country has been through, Allen's prepared to sacrifice our security – our guymelefs – our _homes_ by bringing _you _here, and I won't stand for it."

"Suppose I actually am Serena."

"I know you're not."

"What's it to you?"

"Allen's devotion to you could ruin us all. I'm sick of his mindless obsession."

"His obsession … with anyone other than you, you mean?" It lasted only a moment, but Millerna knew she'd flushed, and she knew Dilandau had seen it.

"How did – "

"I heard things," he said dismissively. "Back when I was a person. Before I came back, you had Allen all to yourself, am I right? But now there's a sister in the mix, and she might mess up your plans."

Millerna decided on a different tack. "Why did you come back to Asturia?"

"Don't be daft – I was brought here."

"Then why haven't you left yet? Why didn't you take the guymelef and run? You could have done it easily. Who are you, really? Why did you come back?"

_Why did he come back?_

_The porous landscape of his memory yielded nothing concrete – like an ice climber who has suddenly waded into a marshland, Dilandau knew instinctively that he was safest staying away from his memory, that he was ill-equipped for it, that he was too heavy, that it could suck him down and kill him. Better that he not approach it directly, that he draw from it only circuitously. It couldn't hold his weight, and he couldn't navigate the maze. He had no mind-palaces of recollection, no sunny days he could visit when he wished – he was at the whim of his memories in the same way birds are subject to the whim of hurricanes. He could draw on nothing at will, and they could beat him down in a flash._

_And Millerna's words sent him reeling._

He remembered crawling back. Crawling back, crawling without shame because he knew that wherever he was fleeing, whatever it was that he was leaving behind, it couldn't be half so important to him as what he was inching towards … family, maybe? Allen? The idea slipped away the moment he tried to pin it down in syllables; Allen's name was poison even in this shadow-world. It triggered something in his chest, and he crawled harder, harder, he was going to make it … he had to, he had to get home … for … something …

"I know I'm not Dilandau," he said, speaking into Millerna's silence, but not quite to Millerna herself. "I'm not Dilandau."

_Dilandau wouldn't have these memories, this ache – Dilandau was sharp steel white inside, not this throb, these spasms of recognition. Whatever these sinkholes in his brain were, they were not Dilandau's._

He turned to face her with an odd look in his eye. She felt her body stiffen. This wasn't what she had wanted to hear. "I thought you said you weren't – "

"But I'm not Serena, either." His voice cracked with sudden desperation. He clutched his fingers in his lap. "I know I'm not Serena. And I know I'm not Dilandau. So what's left?"

Millerna sat down beside him on the bed, and took a hand. It was cold and limp. He didn't pull it away.

"Dilandau – Serena. Tell me. I have to know. What are you, really?

He pushed the butt of his other fist into his eye, maybe in frustration, maybe to wipe away some wetness. "I don't know," he said, in a long exhalation. "Would it matter?

"Maybe it will."

Dilandau took a long, shuddering breath. "I look like a boy."

Millerna laughed, cupped his face in her hand. "You _look_ like a girl. You have a woman's face –a woman's eyes. Your body – "

He threw away her hand with surprising strength. "Schezar keeps my body covered. It disturbs him. But I'm not a woman."

"What about – you know …"

_Serena was kidnapped as a prepubescent, before her secondary sexual characteristics had begun to develop. Her womb was rendered null by surgery; chemical treatment had done the rest. The subcutaneous layer of female body fat fell away from her chest, which remained firm and flat, and soon hardened with pectoral muscle. Her mammary tissue never developed into breasts. Her hips remained sharp and narrow as her bones increased in size and density. Her muscles grew larger as her physical proportions changed, though she remained short and slender. Her facial features remained essentially the same, though her cheeks grew hollow and her eyes acquired their manic gleam during the years she spent clawing her way to the top of the Elite Corps. No male reproductive organs were ever induced to present themselves._

"You mean, what about my body? Do I fuck like a man or a woman? Is that what you're asking me?" He lingered over the words, watching her as he spoke, relishing the effect they had on her.

Millerna squirmed with discomfort, but nodded. "Yes. That's what I'd like to know."

Dilandau stood – one sharp snap of limbs, and he tore himself away from her. "Well, I don't have a cock, if that's what you're asking." His tone faltered a little. "But how can it matter now? Would that help me get one step closer to something – a life – that makes sense?"

Millerna recovered quickly "Maybe," she said, with a virtuous nod of the head, "but I think Allen's reaching the end of his rope."

"Good," he snapped.

Millerna pretended she had misinterpreted this. "It might be good for him."

"I don't give a damn about what's good for him."

"Then what do you want? What are you doing here?"

He sat down, stretched out his arm, and looked at the faint bruises. "Recovering."

"And after that?"

"Who knows?"

Millerna sighed and made to leave, but she turned to look back at the strange little figure on the bed, crumpled and folded inwards, little white hands flopped uselessly on its lap. "Thank you for your time, then." She wanted to say something more, something soothing, maybe – or maybe she wanted to spit something back at him. But her brain stumbled over the proper name, stumbled over the pronouns, and in the end, she dropped a curtsey he may or may not have noticed, and walked quietly from the room.

Millerna left the room, and the minutes crept by. Dilandau fisted the sheets and tried to breathe deeply, but the headache had come back and he couldn't make it stop. His chest was tight – he couldn't get enough air. He swung himself upwards, off the bed, and was confronted by his reflection in the full-length mirror.

"And what do you want?" he asked it, peering closer. He looked at himself critically, panting, but there weren't any answers there. He didn't want to be Dilandau – Dilandau hurt. There were things inside him that were dark and unknowable. Yes, he was Dilandau, leader of the Dragonslayers: he'd killed hundreds of men in battle. But the real Dilandau had been brazen enough to toss the consequences of those actions aside, and he suddenly didn't feel so confident. He could feel those deaths pressing down on him, from somewhere else, somewhere beyond his control. He wasn't strong enough to be Dilandau any more.

But what else did he have? Who was this "Serena" that Allen kept pushing at him? The long-long sister to Asturia's greatest knight? The noble daughter returned from the dead? The smiling, sweet wretch with a heart of gold?

The thought made him want to heave – he'd die first.

Serena … Serena … who was Serena? The first time Allen had called him by that name, he'd been stunned. He'd unraveled. Things had happened in his brain that were unpleasant and painful, and he'd dissembled there on the battlefield, an angry loud thing suddenly gone silent and still.

He'd held his heart and the name had battered him, bombarded him like a siege weapon. Allen's best weapon.

And it didn't matter that what he'd told Millerna was true, that he wasn't a woman. Dilandau could lash out against Allen's gentleness and refute the man's claims all he wanted, but Allen was always there, pushing Serena at him, buoyed by some desperate determination that Dilandau couldn't push aside and didn't understand.

Millerna had left the door open.

Had she done it on purpose? Maybe – who cared? But where had she gone?

His stomach was killing him, but the hollow toothache sensation in his brain was worse. Late afternoon sun trickled through the window; the ships in the harbour glittered on a perfectly blue sea. That was it – he'd go crazy if he stayed in this room. He pushed himself off the bed. Open door. He made his decision.

He knew the castle well enough by now to make his way quickly through what he thought of as "his" wing without attracting much attention. Those few servants who saw him eagerly avoided him. In the main hall he turned right and followed the passage away from the busy, noisy official chambers towards the back garden and the barracks.

_Allen. Allen. Allen._

It echoed in his brain. He walked faster, but it didn't help – the name thundered in his brain with every footstep, until he stumbled into the courtyard and was blinded by a vigorous blast of sunlight. Cursing, he ducked back into the shadows of the covered awning, but nobody had noticed him. Nobody paid him any attention at all – the men's attention was focused on the center of the courtyard, on the figures in the training ring. The men were busy practicing. And in the center …

Allen.

He stood at one end of the ring, a cadet at the other. This was a training exercise, Dilandau surmised. Even as he blinked the sunlight away, the cadet made his move – and Allen parried it easily, without fear and without concern. He was fighting the new cadets one at a time; the rest were lined up a respectful distance away, tense and alert as they watched their captain and their comrades in mock battle. A few of the other knights (Dilandau recognized them by sight, but not by name) stood scattered through the garden, but this was solely Allen's exercise. Allen lectured as he fought; Dilandau could hear the low, steady cadence of his voice, but not the words themselves.

He felt a tingling in his fingers. Slowly, he made his way past the forge around to the far edge of the courtyard, taking care to remain in the shadow of the awning. The door to the weapons cabinet stood open and inviting. It was mostly empty, unguarded. A few swords lay next to the anvil.

Allen was undoubtedly a master with his weapon. The rounds didn't last long – he beat his young opponents quickly and carefully. His movements were graceful, smooth and gentle – and wasn't that just like him, Dilandau snarled to himself. Like everything he did – gentle, polite, but insistent. Not one of the cadets managed to beat him down, not one even could fluster his demeanor. His moves were deliberate, calm, and inexorable. And the more Dilandau watched, the more frustrated he became. He was close to the men now, close to the action. His eyes never left Allen, but his fingers closed around one of the swords left disregarded on the anvil.

The sword wasn't a masterpiece by any means, and there were chinks at the base of the blade. The pommel had been re-attached, and the grip was a little worn, used by hands larger than his own. But it was a good weight, and well-suited to his size.

And suddenly the world made sense again. He felt as he had in the guymelef. He'd broken through the haze in his brain to find himself capable and strong once more. He was suddenly aware of the full range of his abilities, of what could and couldn't be done with a sword, and exactly how far he could take that sword before the world around him shattered. He might not be Serena – he might not be Dilandau – but he knew who he was, and so did the sword.

He didn't even have to think – he didn't have to weigh his options. He simply … moved.


	4. Chapter 4

The figure attacked Allen from behind. The cadets didn't have time to react, to get out of his way, to try and stop him. He shot through their ranks with furious abandon.

But he wasn't fast enough.

Allen saw the cadet's eyes change focus and widen, heard the pattering footfalls, and spun to meet Serena's strike. The collision of the blades made his arms shake, but he held his ground and his sister's sword came to a crashing halt against his.

For a moment they stood together in the sun, sword to sword. Serena's muscles strained, but Allen was immovable.

"Lesson over," said Allen, quietly. "Everyone out of the circle. Right now. All of you." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the cadets murmur in confusion; he could hear the words "sister," "Serena," and "Dilandau" hum nervously around the circle. He didn't dare move his eyes from Serena's.

Some of his fellow knights had rushed to the scene; one pushed his way forward through the crowd and took a step inside the circle.

"No!" Allen snapped, suddenly panicked. Whatever this was, it was between him and Serena – he did not trust the other knights not to hurt her, and he _certainly_ didn't trust her not to hurt them. "Get out. NOW."

"That was rude," Serena grinned, still gripping her sword with a terrible kind of determination. Her voice was lazy and lilting and relaxed, and meanwhile his cadets hovered in the background, uncertain.

They were locked at the point where their swords shivered against each other. Serena still was grinning. She twisted her sword, just a little, taunting him. Allen winced inwardly at the hissing sibilance of their blades.

The thought had never crossed his mind that she might one day attempt to strike him down – had he been wrong? Why was she doing this to him? And what, oh gods _what_ did he do now? He had to buy himself time. He pushed back against Serena's sword, swiftly, carefully, just firmly enough to buy himself a moment's breath – and then he was standing upright, his sword was sheathed, and he'd moved back a pace too far for the reach of Serena's blade. Unarmed and silent, he began to remove his gloves. He fought to keep his face blank, to keep his inward fear from showing.

Serena smiled and took a step back as well, but she didn't relax her stance or lower her sword.

"I figured this would be the hardest part – to get you to strike me. I know you think you'd never hit your sister – but I think I can prove you wrong." That smug voice had never bothered Allen coming from Dilandau – he had never risen to its bait, had never felt its sting. Coming from Serena, it infuriated him, and he could feel his steadiness dissolve beneath that taunting, abrasive laugh.

His voice, when he spoke, was not so calm. "I'd never hurt you, Serena. And you wouldn't harm me. I know it."

"What a happy thought." Serena straightened suddenly, and sheathed own sword. She reached up slowly, deliberately. Allen's spine tingled as her arms stretched up over her head. She began to pull the fabric of her shirt over her body.

"Stop this," Allen hissed, but she paid him no attention. She tossed the garment aside and shook the hair out of her eyes. "Stop it! Serena – "

"Let's do this like men, shall we?" she interrupted. She unsheathed her sword and fell back into stance. Allen's hand itched for his own sword; his body recognized his opponent's challenge, but his eyes couldn't accept what stood before him. He was paralyzed by his own embarrassment at a sight that by all rights should have been indecent.

Serena's chest was flat, without the vaguest hint of breasts. As she stood naked in the brash, angry sunlight, sword in hand, her difference was obvious in a way that it never had been in the soft candlelight. She was slender, yes, and spry, but her bones were too dense, her muscles too bulky. Serena was no little girl.

The way her body moved, the way her face slid in and out of expression, the hair, the eyes, the quirk of the lips … he'd denied it before, but he couldn't deny it now. "Dilandau ..."

And Allen felt a flicker of fear.

He was only just able to block her attack. It was a powerful blow, with the full force of her anger behind it. It was tempered by no desire to change trajectory, to shift direction at the last moment: she'd thrown him a killing blow.

Dilandau – Serena – was angry.

And Allen began to realize that he was angry, too.

And when Serena's sword came crashing down on him again, he couldn't stop himself: his training took over. He struck back. Hard. And then he struck again.

In moments they were both hot, both sweating, both panting under the glare of the sun and the pressure from onlookers in the yard. Serena's face had dropped that crazy grin – _Dilandau's_ crazy grin, Allen hastened to add in his mind – but her eyes still crackled with lightning, and Allen was flushed – too flushed to maintain his composure.

It had been clear from the first blow that Allen had the superior skills – his frame was solid, his form correct, and his sword fell fast and hard. Serena's form was negligent, her blows haphazard, but she had one enormous advantage – she was enjoying herself. Like Dilandau, this was what she lived for. Every minute they fought Serena grew stronger, whereas the fight drained Allen; he felt half-ashamed of every blow he aimed – and Serena gloatingly took full advantage. Allen lost time, lost momentum, as his strikes fell without conviction and were parried without much effort. Serena reacted with a careless, joyous swiftness that Allen couldn't match.

"Where did you learn to fight this clumsily, Schezar?" grinned Serena. "At an Asturian tea party?" Her cadence shuddered with her exertions as she narrowly slipped past Allen's advance, and her voice was hoarse with lack of breath, but something in her tone remained – self-satisfied, smug, and it flowed through Allen like poison.

She danced away from Allen's blade to come at him from a different angle, and something in her movements and her manic grin – her easy inhabitance of the space between chaos and decency – triggered him. His eyes narrowed, stinging with sweat or fury. "I was instructed by Asturian Knights, our predecessors – where did you learn _your _skills, Dilandau?"

He slashed again and Serena slipped away.

"From Zaibach's best?"

Another slash, too heavy for Serena to parry, but easily slow and still reluctant enough for her to dodge.

"From Folken?"

Slash.

"Or was it the animal?"

"_Don't_."

The syllable was hot and fast; Serena faltered, and then gripped her hilt harder. Allen felt a hot, angry pleasure, like pressing the flesh of a fresh wound. Sweat trickled down his spine. He pressed harder.

"Don't what? Was he as clumsy as you, Dilandau? Was his form as shoddy? I know he let his guard down – just like _that_!"

Serena parried Allen's lunging thrust, but only just.

"He died protecting you – just like your Dragonslayers." Allen knew this was cruel. Part of him screamed at the angry injury in Serena's eyes, but the other part of him was furious: furious at that ugly, pale male body, at the way her sword flashed, at the crazy eyes, angry at everything in Dilandau that wasn't Serena, and that part of Allen couldn't be stopped now that he had built up the momentum and the fear and the anger. He was fighting hot now, and Serena's grip twisted on her sword as the blows came too fast and too hard for her to counter.

They both knew that Allen was the superior swordsman, and Serena could not risk an open lunge, off-balance as he was.

Serena did not seem to care.

Serena had no loyalties and no allegiances; she had no battle cry, and so she screamed "_Schezar_!" and thrust her sword as hard as she could.

Her sword went flying – and Allen pressed his advantage. In one swift move he'd forced her to the ground, weaponless. Dilandau – Serena – his sister, whoever she was, was prostrate and helpless before him, glaring up at him with wild, pale eyes, and he'd won and suddenly the anger was gone, and all he was left with was the sweat trickling down his forehead and the familiar lonely ache.

"You're a Schezar now, too," he whispered, staring down at Serena as she panted heavily, prone on the dusty tiles of the courtyard, "and I wish to the mystic moon you weren't." He lowered his sword. "I wish the animal hadn't died to save you."

_Me too. Oh, gods, me too._

From his place on the tiles Dilandau stared at Allen's twisted face, at the weird anger that flickered in his eyes. Allen's words washed over him like astringent. He wanted to wriggle out of his skin, but his stomach burned and he couldn't move.

_Jajuka._

Dilandau was paralyzed; he couldn't see the sword at his throat or Allen's heaving chest or the onlookers turning to whisper to one another.

_Jajuka._

Allen took a step towards Dilandau, then kneeled, so that their eyes were on a level. His sword clattered as it touched the ground. They were very close now – Dilandau could smell his sweat. "I wish you had died in Zaibach."

_Yes. Any death would be better than this._

"You don't know – my heart stopped when I recognized you – when I knew you for what you were. I thought I'd found you again. But I hate you more than I ever thought I could. And I can't kill you, you're my sister – but you destroyed everything I loved in her, and even though it's not your fault I hate you for it."

"_Good_." The single syllable was harsh and virulent. "Good! I'm glad you hate me. I'm glad you can hate me half as much as I loathe you, Schezar."

"We finally have something in common, then."

Silence. They were both empty, and had nothing else to say.

The sun beamed.

"Well, what now, Dilandau?" Allen sighed. "Where do we go from here?"

"Schezar." His voice was a harsh whisper; Allen had to lean in to hear it. He put his cheek very close to his sister's.

"What?"

"For what you said about Jajuka …"

Allen's breath escaped him in a long, slow, mourning sound. "Yes?"

Dilandau's hand seized Allen's sword by the blade, the end closest to him.

"You die."

And Dilandau pushed.

Dilandau was in the room again. Black, black, everything was black and blank and he knew how it would go but he couldn't stop the words from rolling off his tongue. They slipped away from his mouth with a perverse determination, even though he knew the answer.

"Where's Shesta?"

_Dead,_ sang the voices, _they're all dead._

"Jajuka? Where's Jajuka? I need Jajuka!"

_Dead._

"I … need Jajuka."

_Dead._

Dilandau awoke in a room. His room. In the castle. No, wait, not his room – he couldn't see properly out of one eye, but he could see enough through the red haze to know that the view was different. He blinked carefully and ignored the pain that blossomed across his face. It was an old room, very pale and sunwashed, like bones.

Allen's room.

The balcony door was open – he could see into the courtyard beyond it, and he could feel the sun on his skin. His face hurt – he touched a hand to his raw cheek, only to find that his shoulder was on fire and that his palm was firmly bandaged. No matter. He sat up. A mirror hung over the sideboard. Dilandau was surprised at what looked him in the eye. He touched the bandages on his face.

"Went off on me a little much, didn't you, Schezar?"

His voice trembled; he was still shaky from the dream. No matter, no matter – put that thought somewhere else.

Allen, face-up beside him on the bed, didn't react. He had his arms stretched behind his head, casually, but his face was weirdly expressionless. Dilandau felt just as empty as Allen looked. His last reserve of anger had given out on him.

Dilandau examined his face in the mirror. Even without the bandage over his eye, it was a wreck. His head hurt but he stroked the bloody paper anyways. And Allen had done this to him? It barely seemed possible. Of course, it had been terrible to watch Allen fight him without meaning it. Allen's refusal to react, to lash out, had forestalled his own pleasure in taunting the man. But the moment he knew he'd gone too far – the moment Allen was up and ready to strike him … that had been priceless. He remembered the fear coiling in his belly as Allen advanced.

Yes, that had been worth it.

Allen did not seem to share Dilandau's optimism about it. He was silent and still; he was, perhaps, far away right now. Dilandau turned back on the bed and leaned over Allen's blank face. "I'm going to need stitches."

Allen reacted to _that_: he jerked his head away, properly disgusted by the damp wound.

"Did you hear me, Schezar? I think you split my lip. I'm going to need stitches."

Allen met his eyes. "Maybe." His voice was too measured – it did not reflect inner calmness. Was he still mad? Did he still have some of that irrational fury left in him? He'd been trying for so long to get Allen to shut up that the man's silence her and now seemed like a personal insult.

"Why didn't you kill me? You could have, easily. Are you weak?"

No answer.

Dilandau leaned back against the headboard. "Why am I in your room, then? Your bed? Why are you sitting here with me?"

"Because …" Allen let out his breath in a long, low exhalation. He paused, and when he spoke again his voice was low and hopeless. He had only one path to follow, and he'd followed it so far without success. "Because you're my sister. You're Serena."

The nausea from the dream and the anger at Jajuka's death came rushing back so quickly that Dilandau felt like Allen had punched him in the stomach. The millennium machine had been undone. Dilandau was a loose thread; Allen wanted to sew them back into a cozy idyllic life together, and Dilandau wanted nothing more than to refuse him that. He wanted to hurt Allen, wanted to disappoint him.

"Fuck off, Schezar."

Allen sat up so abruptly that Dilandau jerked back. He could only stare as the man the man's previously placid face sank into something dark and desperate.

"You _are_."

"Fuck _off._"

"You were my _sister_!" Allen exploded. "I loved you!" Allen grabbed him by the shoulders; Dilandau tried to pull away but the man was too strong. "You can't even comprehend what that means, can you, Dilandau? You were everything to me and you don't even know what that means! You couldn't tell me what it feels like to love!"

Dilandau felt miserable, nauseous – and he couldn't make it go away, couldn't take it out on anyone else. "Don't come any closer!" he snapped, but Allen didn't let him go. He felt panicked, claustrophobic. "I don't care about your sister! I'm sick of all this creeping in the shadows nonsense, it's all fuzzy and everything's wrong – it's like my closet with all these fucking dresses and your clothes in the other half, nothing fits me! I'm tired – I'm tired – what do you want from me?" he screamed hysterically.

"I want Serena back!"

"I don't know who she is!"

"You're all I've got!"

"But I'm not _her_!"

"But you _should_ be. You bloody well should be her!" he yelled. Rising to his knees with sudden fury, he slammed Dilandau against the wall. Dilandau grabbed onto Allen's forearms as he scrabbled for traction, and felt his head crack against the headboard. "You sick, twisted psychopath! You're all I've got, don't you understand? _You_ took Serena away from me!"

Anger, injustice, humiliation: they rose up in Dilandau like hot bile.

"FUCK YOU, SCHEZAR! I didn't take Serena – you lost her! _You_ did! You lost me! Why did you let them take me? You never came looking for me – you gave up! You gave up, you did, you let them do that to me!" Dilandau realized that he was sobbing. Not fair. Allen should be the one in pain. He grasped Allen's collar – they were fighting for purchase now. "It's your fault I'm here! It's _your_ fault! If you loved me then why did you let them take me?"

An image of Allen – young, smiling – maybe a child, he couldn't tell – an image that had long been distorted by cold, subconscious rage – suddenly broke across his vision. Allen smiling. Such a contrast to the Allen in front of him, a full-grown Allen, big and strong, staring at him in confusion and disbelief and something like terror. This Allen, ready to kill him for murdering – who … what was it, again? What was he was supposed to have done?

He lost his grip – he fell to his knees – and it was as though Allen, by just watching this weary dissembling, started to lose his, too. They peeled away from one another and Dilandau fell back onto the bed. He felt his body start to melt. Allen – happy in his brain – him, her, Serena, Dilandau, whatever – happy with him …

"What – Allen, who am I?"

_I don't know_.

Allen was shaking, shaking with the anger that he hadn't excised and with the terror he'd felt upon seeing Serena's face. The words whispered themselves in his brain, begging to be said aloud – but he clamped them down. _I don't know but I love you anyways_: what kind of a thing was that to say? It was a lie. He loved Serena, long ago, and he still did – but this wasn't Serena, and to burden this poor, sniveling, angry creature with his love before he even had his own name, his own working self … it was wretchedly unfair. All these months since he thought he'd found her, since he'd heard her screaming in her sleep and hoped desperately that somehow the nightmares would fade … no, he'd never really loved this person. He'd loved the memory he had of Serena, a memory he'd injected into a hollow shell. And what a heavy weight for a person to carry – all the relentless expectations of an old love. And this Serena had burst under the strain.

Allen felt deeply ashamed. He loved him – but that could wait – Serena couldn't afford for him to be selfish.

"Who am I?" The whisper again. It was muffled, because Serena had his face pressed into his hands.

Allen took a breath. "I can't tell, because I don't know."

"I don't know, I don't know either. Serena? Dilandau?"

"That's not you. It won't work. I can't – put that on you. That's a terrible thing for me to do to you. It's not fair to you. I loved a fiction of my own creation – you're right. I failed Serena. But I'll never stop loving her, and that means I can't stop loving you. And I'm sorry for it – I know it's not what you need, or want – "

Serena turned over onto his back, looked up at Allen with an aggressive look on his flushed face. "Do you hate me for it?" he challenged.

Allen tried to laugh, something light-hearted, but the sound caught in his chest. He touched the bandage on Serena's face. Serena jerked, but only a little. "Yes, I hate you a little – very much."

"Do you – love me?" Serena's voice choked on the strange, raw words.

Allen nodded. "Of course. I've always loved you. And you loved me, once. You were my center – the only thing I could count on." Allen sighed, and put his hand to his forehead. "I guess … all this time … I was looking for someone to replace you. I needed you, Serena. I couldn't live, couldn't function, without you. You always needed me to save you from something – to catch you." He grinned – it hurt a little, but he forced himself to smile. "And now that I've found you again, you really don't need me at all. You came back to me when you were lonely, you came back when you were lost – but if you can't remember a time when I loved you – Serena, look at me, stop looking away – Serena, what is it? What's wrong?"

His head was full of shapes and the front of his brain burned, like it did when he was a kid and he hung upside down for too long – all the memories and old blood rushed to the front of his skull. His eyes stung with tears and he stomped them out with his palms – or maybe that was just to put a hand between his body and Allen's.

"Schezar …"

"Don't call me that," Allen pleaded. "Not now – please, just once, come on. Call me by my name."

"I… can't."

Allen's face fell.

"It hurts too much," Serena whispered, desperate to explain and desperate to stop. He grasped his fist to his chest. "I can't even _think_ the name – it hurts my brain, it hurts my heart … it was too long ago. You were gone, I didn't know where I was, I didn't know what to do … and Jajuka said it would be okay, he told me what to do, and I thought if I could just keep going, I'd find you again … and then it all faded away – you, Asturia, it became less important, somehow. Jajuka left – he's gone, he's gone and I'm alone. I don't want to be alone any more. I would go back – I would be Serena if I could. But I can't. I can't visit my memories like you do, Schezar." He sat up shakily. "I'm not like you. You lost your sister. I didn't lose my brother. You just – faded. I didn't grieve, I didn't get over it, because it all fell away, it didn't matter any more. They – took things from me. I'm not … I don't have … the things that you do. There are holes, places inside of me where I can't go. Dark spots. Gaps." Serena shook his head, trying to clear the ravaged passageways of his brain. "And it's all … shapes and shadows, now. I think all the good memories are in your head."

Serena took a long, shuddering breath. The effort had cost him something, and Allen didn't want to push him, so he resisted the deep physical urge to embrace him. Instead, Allen swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat next to him.

"When you asked me what I wanted from you … you were right. I wanted my sister back, without any of the complications you brought with her. I didn't want your pain. I wanted you to be whole again. And that's what you can't be, not yet. That's what they did to you." He paused. "For what I said about Jajuka …"

Serena spun to face him. "DON'T!" he ordered. He was shaking.

Allen inclined his head. "I wanted to apologize."

"Oh." Serena turned back. They stared out the open window. The glaring sunlight of the late afternoon had faded, and the bellies of the clouds were tinged with azure and gold. A breeze touched the curtains. It felt good on his forehead – the headache was already easing up. He felt a cool pressure on his hand, and looked down. Serena's fist was small, and though his knuckles were strong and his palms calloused from swordplay, his pale skin had a subtle translucency about it. The blue veins stood out clearly against the tines of bone. Allen grasped the hand.

"Also … for beating the hell out of you."

Serena laughed, unexpectedly. "I let you do that. I wanted to see you angry. It felt better, somehow." He stood, a little shakily, and crossed over to the mirror. "It's not so bad. It'll heal."

"Don't press it like that – you're going to need stitches." Allen moved to stand beside him. They were quiet for a moment as they watched their reflections blink and breathe in tandem.

"Mother used to say how similar we looked," said Allen.

"I don't remember that."

"No, but I do. You were smaller. Besides, you can see it now." Standing side by side, the resemblance was present – not in their eyes, perhaps, but in the long straight lines of their faces, the angles of their jaws.

Serena snorted. "Unlikely. I'm much better-looking."

Allen couldn't tell if this was a joke or not, but he couldn't help smiling anyways. He did, however, notice the frown on Serena's face.

"What is it?"

Serena turned, suddenly. His weird, pale eyes were in earnest now. "I'm … I remember needing you, once. I have that much – I used to need you. That's real. But I do hate you, Schezar. I can't help it – it's part of me. It's all I have."

Allen very carefully reached out and placed his hands on Serena's shoulders. "I'm surrounded every day by far too many people who think the world of me. A change will be good for me, I think." He took his hands away. "And it's not all you have. You have me now."

"And the headaches." To Allen's surprise, Serena leaned forward and placed his forehead onto Allen's shoulder. "And you … won't leave me?"

"No," said Allen, placing an awkward hand on his back. "You won't be alone."

"Not even when I – have to hate you?"

"Not even then." Allen kissed his hair. "I promise never to leave you." He paused. "I might get mad or upset or frustrated – I might even hate you some of the time – "

"Good. We can agree to hate each other." Again, Allen couldn't tell if it was a joke or not; Serena's voice was muffled by his shirt.

"Ah. Good."

"I don't love you yet, Schezar."

"I know."

Allen looked over Serena's head to the open window. The sun was setting over Asturia in a long, lazy leap of gold.

"… Can I sleep here tonight? I don't want to be alone."

~fin~

I should never be held responsible for my endings. :P


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